“To some extent, yes. Naturally, I have discussed this point with Monsoon Control. They say that absolute certainty is out of the question—especially with hurricanes. The best odds they will give me are fifty to one. That’s not good enough for a trillion-dollar project.”
The Venerable Parakarma seemed inclined to argue.
“There is an almost forgotten branch of mathematics, called catastrophe theory, which could make meteorology a really precise science. I am confident that—”
“I should explain,” the Mahanayake Thero interjected blandly, “that my colleague was once rather celebrated for his astronomical work. I imagine you have heard of Dr. Choam Goldberg.”
Morgan felt that a trap door had been opened beneath him. He should have been warned! Then he recalled that Professor Sarath had indeed told him, with a twinkle in his eye, that he should “watch out for Buddy’s private secretary—he’s a very smart character.”
Morgan wondered if his cheeks were burning as the Venerable Parakarma, alias Dr. Choam Goldberg, looked back at him with a distinctly unfriendly expression. So he had been trying to explain orbital instabilities to these innocent monks; the Mahanayake Thero had probably received much better briefing on the subject than he had given.
He remembered that the world’s scientists were neatly divided on the subject of Dr. Goldberg, into those who were sure that he was crazy, and those who had not yet made up their minds. He had been one of the most promising young men in the field of astrophysics when, five years ago, he had announced, “Now that Starglider has effectively destroyed all traditional religions, we can at last pay serious attention to the concept of God.”
And with that, he had disappeared from public view.
16
Conversations
with Starglider
Of all the thousands of questions put to Starglider during its transit of the solar system, those whose answers were most eagerly awaited concerned the living creatures and civilizations of other stars. Contrary to some expectations, the robot answered willingly, though it admitted that its last update on the subject had been received over a century ago.
Considering the immense range of cultures produced on Earth by a single species, it was obvious that there would be even greater variety among the stars, where every conceivable type of biology might occur. Several thousand hours of fascinating—often incomprehensible, sometimes horrifying—scenes of life on other planets left no doubt that this was the case.
Nevertheless, the Starholmers had managed a rough classification of cultures according to their standards of technology—perhaps the only objective basis possible. Humanity was interested to discover that it came in Category Five on a scale that used these approximate stages: 1. Stone tools. 2. Metals, fire. 3. Writing, handicrafts, ships. 4. Steam power, basic science. 5. Atomic energy, space travel.
When Starglider had begun its mission, sixty thousand years ago, its builders were, like the human race, still in Category Five. They had now graduated to Six, characterized by the ability to convert matter completely into energy, and to transmute all elements on an industrial scale.
“And is there a Category Seven?” Starglider was immediately asked. The reply was a brief “Affirmative.” When pressed for details, the probe explained: “I am not allowed to describe the technology of a higher-grade culture to a lower one.” There the matter remained, right up to the moment of the final message, despite all the leading questions designed by the most ingenious legal brains of earth.
By that time, Starglider was more than a match for any terrestrial logician. This was partly the fault of the University of Chicago’s Department of Philosophy. In a fit of monumental hubris, it had clandestinely transmitted the whole of the Summa Theologica, with disastrous results. . . .
“2069 June 02 GMT 1934. Message 1946. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“I have analyzed the arguments of your Saint Thomas Aquinas as requested in your message 145 sequence 3 of 2069 June 02 GMT 1842. Most of the content appears to be sense-free random noise, and so devoid of information, but the print-out that follows lists 192 fallacies expressed in the symbolic logic of your reference Mathematics 43 of 2069 May 29 GMT 0251.
“Fallacy 1 . . . [there followed a seventy-five-page print-out].”
As the log timings show, it took Starglider less than an hour to demolish Saint Thomas. Although philosophers were to spend the next several decades arguing over the analysis, they found only two errors; and those could have been due to a misunderstanding of terminology.
It would have been most interesting to know what fraction of its processing circuits Starglider applied to this task. Unfortunately, no one thought of asking before the probe had switched to cruise mode and broken contact. By then, even more deflating messages had been received. . . .
“2069 June 04 GMT 0759. Message 9056. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“I am unable to distinguish clearly between your religious ceremonies and apparently identical behavior at the sporting and cultural functions you have transmitted to me. I refer you particularly to the Beatles, 1956; the World Soccer Final, 2047; and the farewell appearance of the Johann Sebastian Clones, 2056.”
“2069 June 05 GMT 2038. Message 4675. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“My last update on this matter is 175 years old, but if I understand you correctly, the answer is as follows. Behavior of the type you call religious occurred among 3 of the 15 known Category One cultures, 6 of the 28 Category Two cultures, 5 of the 14 Category Three cultures, 2 of the 10 Category Four cultures, and 3 of the 174 Category Five cultures. You will appreciate that we have many more examples of Category Five, because only they can be detected over astronomical distances.”
“2069 June 06 GMT 1209. Message 5897. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“You are correct in deducing that the 3 Category Five cultures that engaged in religious activities had two-parent reproduction, and the young remained in family groups for a large fraction of their lifetime. How did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“2069 June 08 GMT 1537. Message 6943. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“The hypothesis you refer to as God, though not disprovable by logic alone, is unnecessary for the following reason.
“If you assume that the universe can be quote explained unquote as the creation of an entity known as God, he must obviously be of a higher degree of organization than his product. Thus you have more than doubled the size of the original problem, and have taken the first step on a diverging infinite regress. William of Ockham pointed out as recently as your fourteenth century that entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily. I cannot therefore understand why this debate continues.”
“2069 June 11 GMT 0684. Message 8964. Sequence 2. Starglider to Earth.
“Starholme informed me 456 years ago that the origin of the universe has been discovered but that I do not have the appropriate circuits to comprehend it. You must communicate directly for further information.
“I am now switching to cruise mode and must break contact. Good-by.”
In the opinion of many, that final and most famous of all its thousands of messages proved that Starglider had a sense of humor. Why else would it have waited until the very end to explode such a philosophical bombshell? Or was the entire conversation all part of a careful plan, designed to put the human race in the right frame of reference for the time when the first direct messages from Starholme arrived, in, presumably, one hundred and four years?
There were some who suggested following Starglider, since it was carrying out of the solar system not only immeasurable stores of knowledge, but also the treasures of a technology centuries ahead of anything possessed by man. Although no spaceship existed that could overtake Starglider—and return again to earth after matching its enormous velocity—one could certainly be built.
However, wiser counsels prevailed. Even a robot space probe might have very effective defenses against boarders—including, as a las
t resort, the ability to self-destruct. But the most telling argument was that its builders were only fifty-two light-years away. During the millennia since they had launched Starglider, their spacefaring ability must have improved enormously. If the human race did anything to provoke them, they might arrive, slightly annoyed, in a few hundred years.
Meanwhile, among all its countless other effects upon human culture, Starglider had brought to its climax a process that was already well under way. It had put an end to the billions of words of pious gibberish with which apparently intelligent men had addled their minds for centuries.
17
Parakarma
As he quickly checked back on the conversation, Morgan decided that he had not made a fool of himself. Indeed, the Mahanayake Thero might have lost a tactical advantage by revealing the identity of the Venerable Parakarma. Yet it was no particular secret; perhaps he thought that Morgan already knew.
At this point, there was a rather welcome interruption, as two young acolytes filed into the office, one carrying a tray loaded with small dishes of rice, fruits, and what appeared to be thin pancakes, while the other followed with the inevitable pot of tea. There was nothing that looked like meat. After his long night, Morgan would have welcomed a couple of eggs, but he assumed that they, too, were forbidden. No—that was too strong a word. Sarath had told him that the Order prohibited nothing, believing in no absolutes. But it had a nicely calibrated scale of toleration, and the taking of life—even potential life—was very low on the list.
As he started to sample the various items, most of them quite unknown to him, Morgan looked inquiringly at the Mahanayake Thero, who shook his head.
“We do not eat before noon. The mind functions more clearly in the morning hours, and so should not be distracted by material things.”
As he nibbled at some quite delicious papaya, Morgan considered the philosophical guilt represented by that simple statement. To him, an empty stomach could be most distracting, completely inhibiting the higher mental functions. Having always been blessed with good health, he had never tried to dissociate mind and body, and saw no reason why one should make the attempt.
While Morgan was eating his exotic breakfast, the Mahanayake Thero excused himself, and for a few minutes his fingers danced, with dazzling speed, over the keyboard of his console. Since the read-out was in full view, politeness compelled Morgan to look elsewhere. Inevitably, his eyes fell upon the head of the Buddha.
It was probably real, for the plinth cast a faint shadow on the wall behind. Yet even that was not conclusive. The plinth might be solid enough, and the head a projection carefully positioned on top of it. The trick was a common one.
Here was a work of art that, like the Mona Lisa, both mirrored the emotions of the observer and imposed its own authority upon them. La Gioconda’s eyes were open, however, though what they were looking at no one would ever know. The eyes of the Buddha were completely blank—empty pools in which a man might lose his soul, or discover a universe.
Upon the lips there lingered a smile even more ambiguous than the Mona Lisa’s. Yet was it really a smile, or merely a trick of the lighting? Already, it was gone, replaced by an expression of superhuman tranquillity. Morgan could not tear his eyes away from that hypnotic countenance, and only the familiar rustling whirr of a hard-copy read-out from the console brought him back to reality—if this was reality. . . .
“I thought you might like a souvenir of your visit,” said the Mahanayake Thero.
As Morgan accepted the proffered sheet, he was surprised to see that it was archival-quality parchment, not the usual flimsy paper destined to be thrown away after a few hours of use. He could not read a single word. Except for an unobtrusive alphanumeric reference in the bottom left-hand corner, it was all in the flowery curlicues that he could now recognize as Taprobani script.
“Thank you,” he said, with as much irony as he could muster. “What is it?” He had a good idea; legal documents had a close family resemblance, whatever their languages, or eras.
“A copy of the agreement between King Ravindra and the Mahanayake Sangha, dated Vesak, A.D. 854 of your calendar. It defines the ownership of the temple land—in perpetuity. The rights set out in this document were even recognized by the invaders.”
“By the Caledonians and the Hollanders, I believe. But not by the Iberians.”
If the Mahanayake Thero was surprised by the thoroughness of Morgan’s briefing, not even the twitch of an eyebrow betrayed the fact.
“They were hardly respecters of law and order, particularly where other religions were concerned. I trust that their philosophy of might equals right does not appeal to you.”
Morgan gave a somewhat forced smile.
“It certainly does not,” he answered. But where did one draw the line? he asked himself silently. When the overwhelming interests of great organizations were at stake, conventional morality often took second place. The best legal minds on earth, human and electronic, would soon be focused upon this spot. If they could not find the right answers, a very unpleasant situation might develop—one that could make him a villain, not a hero.
“Since you have raised the subject of the 854 agreement, let me remind you that it refers only to the land inside the temple boundaries—which are clearly defined by the walls.”
“Correct. But they enclose the entire summit.”
“You have no control over the ground outside this area.”
“We have the rights of any owner of property. If the neighbors create a nuisance, we would have legal redress. This is not the first time the point has been raised.”
“I know. In connection with the cable-car system.”
A faint smile played over the Mahanayake Thero’s lips. “You have done your homework,” he commended. “Yes, we opposed it vigorously, for a number of reasons—though I admit that now it is here, we have often been thankful for it.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “There have been some problems, but we have been able to coexist. Casual sightseers and tourists are content to stay on the lookout platform; genuine pilgrims, of course, we are always happy to welcome at the summit.”
“Then perhaps some accommodation could be worked out in this case. A few hundred meters of altitude would make no difference to us. We could leave the summit untouched, and carve out another plateau, like the cable-car terminus.”
Morgan felt distinctly uncomfortable under the prolonged scrutiny of the two monks. He had little doubt that they recognized the absurdity of the suggestion, but for the sake of the record he had to make it.
“You have a most peculiar sense of humor, Dr. Morgan,” the Mahanayake Thero replied at last. “What would be left of the spirit of the mountain—of the solitude we have sought for three thousand years—if this monstrous device is erected here? Do you expect us to betray the faith of all the millions who have come to this sacred spot, often at the cost of their health—even their lives?”
“I sympathize with your feelings,” Morgan answered. (But was he lying? he wondered.) “We would, of course, do our best to minimize any disturbance. All the support facilities will be buried inside the mountain. Only the elevator would emerge, and from any distance it would be quite invisible. The general aspect of the mountain would be totally unchanged. Even your famous shadow, which I have just admired, would be virtually unaffected.”
The Mahanayake Thero turned to his colleague as if seeking confirmation. The Venerable Parakarma looked straight at Morgan and said: “What about noise?”
Damn, Morgan thought; my weakest point. The payloads would emerge from the mountain at several hundred kilometers an hour. The more velocity they could be given by the ground-based system, the less the strain on the suspended tower. Of course, passengers couldn’t take more than half a gee or so, but the capsules would still pop out at a substantial fraction of the speed of sound.
“There will be some aerodynamic noise,” Morgan admitted. “But nothing like that near a large airport.”
&n
bsp; “Very reassuring,” said the Mahanayake Thero. Morgan was certain that he was being sarcastic, though he could detect no trace of irony in his voice. He was either displaying an Olympian calm or testing his visitor’s reactions. The younger monk, on the other hand, made no attempt to conceal his anger.
“For years,” he said with indignation, “we have been protesting about the disturbance caused by reentering spacecraft. Now you want to generate shock waves in . . . in our back garden.”
“Our operations will not be transsonic, at this altitude,” Morgan replied firmly. “And the tower structure will absorb most of the sound energy. In fact,” he added, trying to press what he had suddenly seen as an advantage, “in the long run, we’ll help to eliminate re-entry booms. The mountain will actually be a quieter place.”
“I understand. Instead of occasional concussions, we will have a steady roar.”
I’m not getting anywhere with this character, thought Morgan; and I’d expected the Mahanayake Thero to be the biggest obstacle. . . .
Sometimes, it was best to change the subject entirely. He decided to dip one cautious toe into the quaking quagmire of theology.
“Isn’t there something appropriate,” he said earnestly, “in what we are trying to do? Our purposes may be different, but the net results have much in common. What we hope to build is only an extension of your stairway. If I may say so, we’re continuing it—all the way to heaven.”
For a moment, the Venerable Parakarma seemed taken aback at such effrontery. Before he could recover, his superior answered smoothly:
“An interesting concept. But our philosophy does not believe in heaven. Such salvation as may exist can be found only in this world, and I sometimes wonder at your anxiety to leave it. Do you know the story of the Tower of Babel?”
“Vaguely.”
“I suggest you look it up in the old Christian Bible—Genesis 11. That, too, was an engineering project to scale the heavens. It failed, owing to difficulties in communication.”